"Fool: If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'd have thee beaten for being old before thy time.
Lear: How's that?
Fool: Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst
been wise".
...
This bitter exchange only makes sense if there is an expectation that old age be accompanied by wisdom. Indeed the weight and puzzle of that expectation is one of the great themes of the play.
Shakespeare is of course right that there is no simple equivalence between old age and wisdom. However, portraying this is not the same as simply abolishing the expectation. On the contrary, Lear's foolishness is tragic because the expectation makes some form of sense.
Yet it seems to me that, in the modern West, we have come as close as is humanly possible to such an abolition. We barely believe in wisdom at all, still less the wisdom of white hairs.
We see old age largely as either merely a prolongation of being younger ("young at heart") or as a curse: the time of illness and irrelevance.
Old age is of course the time of illness, and the time of death. So surely a considerable part of why we struggle to honour it is that we struggle to accept illness and death.
We also struggle to see much good in the detachment from sensuality which comes with the cooling of the passions. "Wanting less" is not seen as a form of wisdom in a world driven by wants.
The expectation of wisdom can of course be a burden to both old and young. Lear groans under it, and his kingdom groans under Lear.
But absent this expectation, what comfort can we give our elders, and what can we ourselves look forward to in compensation for the ineluctable losses of our later years?
The old are not strong or quick-witted or attractive or engines of profit. If we shape no role for them as elders, worthy of some form of reverence, what are they but, at best, objects of pity, and at worst, failures surplus to requirements?
No wonder we were so keen to lock them down. No wonder we are now legalizing eliminating them altogether.
Goneril and Regan would approve.
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It's rather strange that one of the core activities of academia—and, as far as I know, this is true across all its branches—has become the writing of texts that no one will ever read.
"No one" is an exaggeration: most academic texts are read by someone, even if it's only a colleague reviewing a draft, and the peer reviewers and editor involved in their publication.
Beyond that, many texts will be read, or at least skimmed or AI-strip-mined, by a handful of people who intend to publish further texts on the same micro-topic, that will meet the same inglorious fate.
To classify a form of practical knowledge as a "skill" is effectively to designate it as a means to an end, as an instrument, not as an accomplishment that is desirable for its own sake.
...
So—to take an example from childhood—tying one's shoes is a skill. We do not learn it for the intrinsic beauty and joy of shoe-tying, but so as to ensure our shoes do not fall off and we don't trip on our laces.
To be fair, there is an element of intrinsic goodness in a simple task like shoe-tying, a pleasure in doing it well. This is part of the happiness we feel as kids when we can at last tie our own shoes.
However, that love becomes 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 when things that are lesser goods are loved more than things that are higher goods. Ultimately, all things and beings are to be loved only for the sake of God.
So, for instance, it is not sinful to love pleasure, because pleasure is a good thing that God created. But it is sinful to love pleasure 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 than virtue. This will amount to making a god of pleasure, and turning away from the true God.
By no stretch of the imagination am I a great writer. On a very good day, I can pass muster as a good one. But, except on a very bad day, I am a competent writer.
...
By "competent" I mean that I can express in writing what I am seeking to convey, so that the reader can both understand my point, and not be jarred by irrelevancies and malapropisms, or bewildered by a faulty structure.
It helps that I can spell decently, can use punctuation sensibly, and know how to break a short text up into paragraphs, and a longer one into sections.
One point that separates the Greek and Roman reactions to the rise of Christianity is the specific Roman concern that, as citizens of the Empire became Christians, the Roman gods would put an end to Roman greatness to revenge their abandoment.
...
This concern—which we know from Christian, rather than pagan sources—is most famously addressed in St Augustine's 𝘊𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘎𝘰𝘥, written as a reponse to the allegation that the sack of Rome by the Goths in AD 410 was a punishment from the old gods.
But St Augustine's great book is in fact the final major text in this debate, which we find attested as early as Tertullian, in the 3rd century AD.